


Last Post

by spikala



Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, One Shot Collection, Original Character Death(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 12:54:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9324509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikala/pseuds/spikala
Summary: This is how it happened: high above the plains of Geonosis watching the sunrise; with a birth on Umbara; on some Outer Rim backwater with a beach. Trio of one-shots.





	1. The Fires of Geonosis

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Karen Traviss, whose style of opening for "Hard Contact" grabbed my interest and wouldn't let go until I'd had a go at it myself.

This is how it happened.

I'm watching the sunrise. For all of the wind and dust that come with being stationed in the upper gun batteries, the view is worth it. You get a full 360 view of the plains below, the ridges and valleys of the land, not to mention the early morning spectacle as the sun peeks over the horizon. It's a gorgeous sunrise today, and I can't help but think that it's going to be a great day.

I nudge my brother beside me _, c'mon check it out_. He glances upwards for all of a second, grunts, and goes back to recalibrating the turret. His head's full of metal; all guns and specs that one. He's called Tech and I can see why. I don't have a name yet, but I hope to earn one someday. Maybe he'll be the one to give it to me. But he's in one of his moods, he doesn't seem to like early mornings, I can never figure out why. So I ignore him. I'm not letting anyone ruin today with a bad temper. Today belongs to the optimists, to me.

I'm still staring at the amazing play of colours over the land when the lieutenant flits over to our gun. He's all flustered, unable to keep still, bobbing around in the morning breeze. I know deep down that something is up, that today might not be as glorious as I'd hoped.

"We're under attack," he blurts out. "We've just had reports of a fleet dropping out of hyperspace."

My gut clenches up. This is it. After all our training and drilling, we're finally going to war.

"Who is it?" I ask.

"Unknown," the lieutenant replies, and my gut tries to make itself as small as possible, as though that will save it from the enemy.

The lieutenant glides over to the next gun crew, leaving me and Tech staring at the suddenly hostile skies above as though a ship might drop down on top of us. It's Tech that breaks the spell.

"Prep," he orders, and just like that we're both wrapped up in our jobs, getting the gun ready to rain hell down on the interlopers. I check to make sure that the pile of power cores is easily accessible; I'll be doing a lot of going back and forth. Tech clambers up into the gunner's seat as I slide the first of the massive shells into the rear of the gun. It'll be good for at least ten shots. Ten balls of sonic fury. He looks at me and I nod. All ready. He makes an annoyed click in his throat and I remember that I'm supposed to confirm everything verbally.

"All ready, corporal."

The massive gun hums into life as Tech powers it up. The turret swivels back and forth as Tech check it is moving smoothly. There's no graunching or sticking so we've obviously done a good job at keeping the dust out of the moving parts. The turret stops, still pointing up at the wisps of cloud that are starting to cover the sky.

"Load."

"Yes, sir," I say, and rush to fill the gun's magazine to capacity.

I'm scarcely finished when the lieutenant is back, almost squawking in his panic. I'm not that far off from squawking myself.

"Here they come, sector eleven-two-zero," he yells. "All batteries, fire at will!"

Tech swivels the gun around. I squint, but can only make out vague grey shapes in the distance, shimmering in the early morning heat. Tech opens fire as do the other gunners. The opening salvo is deafening. I can feel the recoil vibrating through the rock under my feet.

I'd love to say that all my fear and thoughts fled as I hurried to do my duty, to keep make sure that Tech didn't run out of cores, but that would be a blatant lie. I was terrified. It's not something I'm particularly proud of, or keen to admit to, but there's not much point in lying now.

It's all I can do not to desert my post when the enemy takes exception to our battery and returns fire. The rock shakes, deadly splinters fly everywhere as we are hammered by the enemy guns. Our air crews manage to keep their fighters at bay, but we are still taking a pounding from the artillery below. There are screams and explosions as other guns and their crews are hit. I see one gun go sailing off the edge to the ground far below, the crew trapped by the steel girders, wings flapping futilely as they struggle to save themselves. The ground is suddenly just as dangerous as the enemy fire and I feel my knees start to shake.

I'm fetching more cores, standing at the base of the rapidly diminishing pile when our gun is hit.

One moment I'm bending down to grab another core. The next, I'm face first against the pile, my ears are ringing. I try to push myself up, but my wrist screams at me. I look down and almost faint. It's dangling at an angle that I know it shouldn't. Something drips into my eyes. I blink, wiping it away with my other hand, and realise its blood: my blood. My stomach lurches. I can't hear Tech. I try to stand, but my legs don't work. I can't feel them.

I crane around and see that I'm sandwiched between the shells and the barrel of a gun. It's been ripped from its stand and is now holding me down. I can see my toes but they don't move when I tell them too. I try to flap. A fresh surge of pain rips into me. A spar of metal has ripped free and ploughed into my wings, pinning me to the dirt. I can't fly, I'm grounded.

I panic then, thrashing around and trying to get free. No use. I pause, panting with the pain, the fear, then I realise that there is no more gunfire. No more omph-omph of sonic rounds going off. Is there no one left? It's far from quiet though. I hear screams, gunfire on the plain below, the clanking of metal, shouts of alien voices. Then there's another sound that drowns out everything else. I want to clamp my hands over my ears, but I can only shake in pain and fear.

A huge ship rises up out of nowhere. A box, full of white droids shouting, pointing weapons at the pile of metal and bodies that used to be my brothers and our battery. The box just hovers there and I hear the droids shouting, but I don't understand them. All the sounds roll into one, with no clicks to indicate where words start and end.

" _All guns are destroyed, sir. Do you want us to hold the position?"_

" _Negative, trooper. Blow it and move on."_

_"Yes, sir. One order of crispy fried bugs coming right up."_

The ship leaves as suddenly as it came and I breathe a sigh of relief. The droids are gone. Maybe now I can get free and try to find Tech. See if there are any other survivors.

Then the world explodes in flame.


	2. Darkness on Umbara

This is how it happened. With a birth.

We knew what was coming. Our allies had caught wind of an invasion fleet headed our way. Thousands of soldiers and hundreds of ships. It seemed a bit like overkill: all of that, just for our small, little world. Little old Umbara. All the militia reservists were called up. I had to don my armour for the first time in years.

Pira watched as I clambered inside the suit, her face pale and belly large. She was pregnant with our first child. We'd been waiting and trying and hoping for so long, she'd struggled through the pregnancy from hell while I watched helplessly and now that the end of the road was near, here I was trudging off to war and abandoning her.

She was trying so hard not to show her fear, but she was as pale as a ghost, hands pressed to her lips. I wrapped my arms around her, cursing that I hadn't done this before I suited up. Our last embrace before I left, and all she could feel was cold plastoid pressing into her.

"Call your mother," I said, trying to sound strong and calm. "Get her over here. You shouldn't be alone. Not with the baby due any day now."

She started to nod, but then her face contorted, both hands going to her stomach. "Oooh!"

We both knew what was happening. I sat her down on the sofa, tried to make her comfortable, and called up first the local hospital ("We'll be there in five minutes!"), then her mother ("I'll see you both at the hospital then"), and then my commanding officer.

"Sir, my wife's just gone into labour. Can I—"

He cut me off. "I'm sorry, but we need every soldier at their posts. Your wife will have to do without you."

Our first child and I wasn't going to be there to see it come into this world. I met Pira's eyes, and now she was the one trying to be strong.

"You've got to go," she said. "I'll be okay. The medical team will be here any minute. Just get going."

So I left. I squeezed her hands, pressed my lips to her cheek, donned my helmet, and walked out the door.

==o0o==

The Republic's wet droids just kept coming. The idiot things just kept walking down the main highway, their armour shining bright in the shining light from the road. Only the landmines that we'd hidden there earlier seemed to give them pause. That was when we descended on them like banshees out of the trees.

When it was over, they had left their dead everywhere. The road to the capital was still ours, but we had lost men too.

I knew in my heart that I should mourn the dead, that I should be worrying about Pira and our child, but all I could feel was rage. Rage against these ghost-men who'd invaded my world and dragged the war to our doorstop. I knew this was the Mix talking, the gases that were pumping into my helmet and amping up my aggression, but I didn't care. I was determined to push these invaders off my planet and send them packing. Others might fear them, but they were just wet-droids, fighting for something they'd no stake in. They weren't like me and the others—fighting for our homes, our families, and our childrens' freedom. They were just shadows of men.

A voice crackled in my ears. It was Tarvi, one of our scouts. "They've stopped their retreat."

I felt my lips curl up into a snarl. We'd pushed them back a bit, and now they were just sitting there on the road like they owned the place. I wasn't going to stand for it.

"Everyone regroup. We'll teach them to sit around idly."

I grinned at my commander's voice: great minds. Then he motioned, pulling me to one side.

"Son, I've got some news that I think you should hear."

"Sir." I stood there waiting to hear what he had to say and wanting to join the others for the counter-attack.

"Your wife gave birth to a little girl a few hours ago. Both mother and child are healthy. Congratulations."

He clasped my shoulder and strode off, while I stood there gaping. A little girl. I was a father. All of a sudden, the invasion didn't seem quite so important. I wanted to shuck off my suit and gun and sprint to the hospital to see my daughter.

The whirr of weapons powering up snapped me back to the present, and I upped the Mix in my helmet. I needed to focus. I had to get rid of the ghost-men first. Only then would Pira and our daughter be safe. I breathed deeply, feeling my heart speed up as adrenaline flooded my system. Once again, I was a member of the militia, focused and out for blood.

We crept through the mists, following the voices and armour that shone in the UV light. I watched the clones standing around and singled out their leader. He stood out, his helmet subtly different from the other soldiers, and he carried two pistols rather than a rifle. I knew then: he was in charge and he was mine. I was going to take him down, and carry his helmet home as a plaything for my daughter.

Nees. That was a good name for a girl, for my daughter. I would kill this interloper for Nees. For Pira.

I shimmied up a nearby tree, one that had a branch that went right over the wet-droid leader, and waited for my commander's signal.

The others opened fire in a maelstrom of green.

I dropped to the ground and spun. He was right there. I lunged and grabbed him around the neck, but he twisted, and I was on the ground with my helmet cracked and Mix leaking away. I raised my blaster, but he was faster.

_Pira, my love… I'm sorry._

Blue light. Then darkness.


	3. Overloaded

It's no mystery what happened: I was weak.

That's all it comes down to in the end—I wasn't good enough. A waste of perfectly good Jango.

My squad was fully kitted out in our Katarn armour, ready for whatever would be thrown our way. We were cocky and confident, like always. Why wouldn't we be? We were the best of the best. Or so I thought.

My feet were starting to tingle, we'd been standing in the landing craft for hours now, slowly chugging our way towards the beaches. Two-Eight punches my arm. How he manages it in these cramped conditions where we're practically held up by the men on either side of us, I've no idea.

"Stop fretting. It'll be fine. We can take whatever they throw at us."

I try for a smile. Dunno why when we're all armoured up and no one can see our faces. Two-Eight knew though, that's what brothers are for.

"Maybe we should call you Fret," he says. "Short, catchy, and not far off the mark."

There are snorts of laughter from the other members of the squad, Two-Two and Two-Sev, at Two-Eight's witticism.

"Don't you dare," I snarl. "What kind of stupid name is that? Two-Five suits me just fine."

The others ignore me and keep laughing.

"Feel like sharing the joke?" says the man wedged beside me. I don't know him, he's from another squad, another sergeant. One of the crazy Mandalorian ones I think. We were talking on a closed channel so he must've picked up on our body language.

I shake my head and turn on my speakers. "No joke."

He studies me, and then nods. "RC-1136, Theta Squad. Nice to meet you."

He's about to say something else when the light in the cabin goes green, glinting off smooth armour and matte black rifles. Everyone goes quiet. I swallow. This is it.

I shift my weight onto the balls of my feet, ready to run for it once that ramp comes down. The landing craft is a magnet for enemy fire. I can already hear blaster bolts hitting the hulls. Get caught in here and you're dead. I know this because the sarge and the flash lessons have drilled this into my brain like letters into permacrete. It's part of me now.

The ramp goes down with a bang and the first row surges out. The misssion flashes through my head; get up the beach, take the guns in sector six, neutralise any enemies you encounter. All that flicks past in an instant, shimmering blue holo-maps springing to life in my head. The second row has just disembarked. I'm in the fifth. This is taking too long, I can feel myself getting jittery, even though I know that it's been less than seconds since the ramp dropped.

Two-Two's voice is in my ears. "Easy, Two-Five. We've got this."

I grunt, watching as the next few rows of men spill out of the craft in slow motion. Then there's nothing but space in front of me. I charge out of the landing craft and drop into chest-deep water.

It's deeper than I thought it was going to be—that was my second thought. My first one was kark, and my third was to regret having crammed all that extra kit into my pack.

Lugging around our normal kit is no walk in the park, as the sarge might say. But the night before, I'd managed to smuggle some extra ration cubes, ammo clips, and dets—thermal detonators—into my gear. No harm in being prepared; another of the sarge's sayings. Apparently that isn't always the case.

The first step makes almost makes me pitch face first into the water. I stumble a few extra steps, the weight on my back pushing me forward, the water dragging at me even as it stopped me from toppling over. I can hear the sergeants are yelling at us all to 'move up' and 'move forward'. There's the hiss of rounds hitting the water around me: no simunition today. I take another step, this time controlled, as I try to make my way towards the beach. The waves are getting to be a problem; the water is too deep to move normally. This wasn't in the flash-training.

On the third step, the ground isn't there. I try to catch myself but that damn pack has got me off-balance. I go down—hard. As the water sloshes up, then over my visor, I see what has happened. I've stepped into a sink hole.

I fight to claw my way back to the surface, and succeed for all of about five seconds. Water drips from my visor, blurring my vision for a moment before it gets wiped away by the helmet. My bulging pack isn't watertight. Not anymore. I've put too much gear in, the pack won't seal, and the water seeps in, dragging me back underwater. I fight for a minute more, but the undertow has got a hold of me, dragging me along the bottom of the seabed. I see an endless parade of feet appearing in a splash of bubbles, my fellow commandos deploying from yet more landing craft. No one slows as they all make their way inland.

I don't panic. I've got eight minutes worth of air in my armour and panicking will just use it up quicker, turn that eight minutes into five, or two, depending on how badly I lose it. So I try to get free of my pack; it's weighing me down. I'll take the sarge's bollocking for losing my kit later. It's no more than I deserve for fouling up this royally. I fumble for the release catches, but nothing happens. They're jammed—full of silt and sand, no doubt.

Fine, be that way. I'm not done yet. I eject the vibroblade from my gauntlet, determined to cut the pack free and carry on with the exercise. I'm going to let the squad down at this rate; they'll be at the rendezvous, waiting for me when they could get getting on with the mission. I struggle and twist, but no matter how I contort myself, ignoring the screaming in my joints, the rising unease in my chest, I can't reach the straps. Damn.

I check my air: less than six minutes remaining. I must be not-panicking more than I'd thought. The pack stays stubbornly on my bag as I writhe and wiggle underwater. I can't budge it and I'm getting further way from the beach. It's time to swallow my pride. I can't do this alone.

I open a com channel to sarge. "Sarge, Two-Five here. I'm down and can't get up. Request assistance." I dutifully rattle off where I think I am, allowing for the current and my earlier stumbling around. Any moment now, my brothers or my sarge will come and give me a hand up.

"That's a negative, Two-Five. Continue with the exercise."

That's not my sarge's voice, but I obey anyway. That's what a good commando does. I struggle and fight. Fight the weight on my back, the tug of the sea, the insidious creep of panic in my chest. I struggle to get back up, to get back to my brothers, and get away from that little voice that's telling me that I'm really in the _dwang_ this time. I'm a commando. Best of the best, and I refuse to be beaten by some pack, by water. Commandos don't get killed by things like that, and they don't go down on a training exercise.

But in the end, they can and I do.

Because at the end of the day, I wasn't good enough. I didn't get free of my pack. Didn't surface again. I let my squad down, my sarge down. Didn't complete the mission.

I failed, because I was weak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any feels you may've had from the ficlets.
> 
> Written in response to a bit from Karen Traviss' Republic Commando books that really stuck with me:   
> "His emotions didn't have names. They were feeling that had memories embedded in them-finishing a fifty-kilometer run thrirty-two seconds outside the permitted time, and being made to run it again; seeing a clone trooper fall on a beachhead landing excercise, weighed down by his pack and drowning, while no directing staff paused to help..."


End file.
